


Minutiae

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:26:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff, folks. Pure fluff. I'm doing some pro work right now, and too busy to focus on integrated material, so I am handing you this little sugar bomb to warm the cockles of your wee, winter-wizend hearts only just beginning to swell with spring's promise. Consider this the literary equivalent of a fat little bouquet of highly scented pink cabbage roses with baby's breath and bleeding heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutiae

“I don’t know what you see in him,” Sherlock growled to Lestrade late one evening, when they’d chased the villain to his destined end, and headed off to the local for pub-grub and a pint. He grimaced, upper lip warping into a sneer, nose crinkling as though the very idea of his brother left a foul scent on the air. “All in all, combining Mycroft and romance seems counterindicated.”

“Yeah, well, you’re his brother,” Lestrade pointed out. He’d ordered a shepherd’s pie with salad, and a pint of Fuller’s London Pride. He dumped a healthy dollop of salad cream on his salad, and munched. “I don’t know. He’s…” He thought about it some more, staring down at the uncommunicative surface of the shepherd’s pie, as though the nicely browned and crumb-topped mashed potato could explain it all in a way Sherlock might understand.

 

Hell, he’d settle for it answering in a way he could understand.

He quaffed a great gulp of the IPA out of the pint glass, frowning to himself. Why did Mycroft, in his stiff, controlled priggishness leave him molten with sentiment? It wasn’t that the other man was even a jot less than too-brilliant, nor that he failed to let Lestrade know it every bit as much as Sherlock did. It wasn’t that his ramrod straight spine slacked in any way. When Lestrade allowed himself to consider the full breadth and depth of Mycroft’s power and his competence, well…

Having a thing for Mycroft could be seen as being entirely soppy about a solar flare, for God’s sake!

“Having a thing for my brother could be seen as being soppy about a rabid, carrion-eating jackal, for God’s sake!” Sherlock said, his fork waving over a plate of sausage and mash. “Something eldritch with shreds of rotting flesh between his teeth.”

“Get serious,” Lestrade snapped. “Even Eldritch Mycroft wouldn’t have anything to do with flesh between his teeth. He’d probably get his fangs checked by the dentist twice annually.”

“Oh, all right,” Sherlock conceded, grudgingly. “I suppose you’re right enough, though there’s still something Cthulhu-esque about him. Perhaps the squid-like tentacles.” He quivered his own long fingers at Lestrade, and shuddered in amused horror. “Brrrrrrr. Or the ichor that seeps after him as he strolls along with that umbrella….”

Lestrade shook his head. “You’re an idiot,” he murmured, and dove into dinner, ignoring Sherlock’s passionate insistence on his own genius. He had other things to try to work out.

Why did Mycroft, cool and reserved, controlled and controlling, righteous to an annoying degree—and amoral as a force of nature when serving in his role as the British Government…

Why did Mycroft make him smile? And a particularly goopy, soft smile at that? Why did a man who could probably perform a genocidal pogrom on the better part of Eurasia without even having to check with a superior first make him feel protective, rather than terrified? Why did the sight of Mycroft spark the most terrifying urge to gravitate toward him, finding peace in proximity to the Iceman?

An image—a memory—flashed through his mind. Mycroft working at his desk—business-like and focused, dressed in his most button-down bespoke best, fingers moving over a keyboard so fast Lestrade quite literally could not follow their flight over the keys. His face was sober as an undertaker’s…or a bank auditor’s. His intelligence seemed to burn so brightly that viewers should be wearing sunscreen and hiding their eyes behind Ray-bans. And then Mycroft noticed something, and looked up, and saw Lestrade…

Lestrade, working his way through the shepherd’s pie, was not aware of the doting, fond smile that took over his face as he thought of Mycroft looking up. Sherlock was aware, and not pleased, but he had grown resigned over time. He sighed gustily and made a mental note to simply not mention Mycroft to Lestrade again.

Lestrade’s mind played out that memory, again and again. Mycroft’s head tilted up, his eyes caught sight of Lestrade, and his entire face came alive in a way it had not before. It was such a quiet expression, really. Not a grin that swept from side to side. Not a smile forcing a million crow’s feet to ridge Mycroft’s eyelids and cheeks. No---the expression was compounded of subtleties. His grey eyes brightened with welcome and laughter. A smile of almost ghost-like transparency haunted his lips. Mischief flared and then settled to a warm, soft glow. In every way the changes were small, nuanced, almost delicate. The transformation as a whole, though, was monumental, and it sent hurricanes of affection roaring through Lestrade’s heart.

Sherlock, watching, frowned.

“I really don’t know what you see in him,” he said again. His voice was querulous and sulky.

Lestrade smiled, and finished his pint, eyes closed. “It’s like solving a case, Sherlock,” he said. “It’s the little things that matter.” He let Mycroft’s little, glowing smile of welcome fill his mind, and knew he was right.


End file.
